The Roommate Situation (25 page)

Hooking my fingers into his waistband, I pull myself down between his legs. My chest slides over the hard ridge, the animal waiting to be unleashed. I put my lips around it, through the denim, the cotton drying my tongue while my breath moistens the fabric.

He moans as I mouth him.

His barely contained writhing makes me grind against the mattress.

I smile a little at the fact that I
can
grind myself against the mattress. Anytime I want. Unlike
some
people.

The second-to-last song queues.

I’m not going to let Derek last long. This time, he’s going to be the one to embarrass himself by coming too quickly. I work the buckle on his belt as my mouth moves downward, rounding the curve between his legs. I mouth his balls through the denim, taking my time. Driving him crazy. His thigh presses against my ear. I turn and bite him.

“Oh God,” he says, his words clear in the break before the drums start in on the final track. A slow-starting track, one that moves relentlessly toward its climax.

I draw his zipper down, as slow and fierce as the drums.

Hooking my fingers in his jeans once more, I haul them down his hips, kissing his open fly as his hips rise. I press my face into the heat of his underwear, breathing in deeply before I mouth his cock again. There’s a salty taste in his underwear. A preview of what’s to come. He’s hard and hot and straining for release. Weeping for it. I tongue that spot, that moist circle in the cotton, while Derek pulls at the cuffs and says, “Jesus fucking Christ,” through gritted teeth. His chest heaves. He opens his mouth to gasp in air as I put my mouth around as much of his trapped cock as I can, my hand kneading him softly, my knuckles nudging the inside seam of his jeans.

I drag my chin along him until his waistband is below my lips, and I nip at it with my teeth, drawing it away from his skin, watching his stomach hitch.

I can feel him watching me. I kiss the warm skin on his belly before teasing his underwear down, revealing first the dark thatch of hair—which I kiss—and then the first glimpse of his cock, the side of his shaft, nestled in hair.

A rush goes through my balls at the sight. I press my lips to him, the skin soft as silk, stretched tight over the hardness underneath.

With another tug, his cock pops free.

Just before the song starts to build to its crescendo, I envelope the head with my mouth. Salt and ocean and skin and heat. I put my hands on his hips, holding him down, and start to fuck his cock.

“God.”

I take in as much as I can. Months of practice are paying off. His hair tickles my nose. As I come up, slow and taunting, I draw a deep breath of air, then plunge back down, opening my throat, taking it all in, every inch, until my lips are pressed against his pubic bone, until I’m engulfed in the deep scent of Derek—the smell that comes to me whenever I think of him, of sex with him. Of curling up with my face in his hair and falling asleep tangled up with him.

The smell that makes my cock jump and ache in the tight confines of my jeans.

The iHome below us goes silent.

His body tenses, bracing.

I pull all the way up, sucking the head. We’re the only noise in the room now, the wet suction of my mouth, the gasps and low moans from his throat. My tongue flicks at his slit, at the space underneath it, until his hips fight my grip, wanting to thrust, wanting to push deep into my mouth. I give him that, lowering onto it, holding his hips down harder while I take his cock inside me. His hips keep jerking, fighting my hold.

Cum hits the back of my throat, going right down before I can even think of swallowing.

He’s gasping up at the head of the bed. The locks rattle.

My hands roam his stomach while I continue to suck and lick him like a pop—until I’m sure he’s done. Spent. I kiss him as he falls from my lips, before pushing up to rest my forehead on his stomach.

I’m not ready to let him out.

I’m not ready to move. But my cock needs release too. I turn my hips and undo my belt buckle one-handed, work down my fly, take my cock out and stroke myself, hard and fast, with my cheek riding the rise and fall of his stomach.

I know he’s watching.

I’m watching, watching my cock and my hand and his denim-clad leg, and the way the toe of his boot points toward the ceiling.

A sound jerks out of me.

I close my eyes, breathing in Derek and sweat and sex, digging the fingers of my other hand into his chest.

Slick heat spills over my hand. Then I come for real, shooting hard onto his thigh. Holding on to him as hard as I’m holding on to myself.

I swallow and let my weight relax against him.

I still don’t want to move.

Somehow it sounds like silence in our room, despite the ruckus beyond our walls. Silence except for the beat of Derek’s heart.

“You,” he says, “are really fucking evil.”

I peel myself off him. “Should you be calling me names right now?” My hand’s sticky with cum. I drag a shirt over and wipe it.

“Sorry,” he says.

He’s not. I smile a little as I toss the shirt away. The keys are in his pocket. I enjoy shoving my hand in to get them.

* * * *

Afterward, lying spooned in the dark on the doubled bed—spent, sated, and exhausted—I feel a tickle of breath across my ear.

He pulls closer, his body pressing warm and solid against my backside. He lifts his head a little to whisper, “I’ll get you next time.”

I smile.

I
really
won’t mind.

He settles his head again, nuzzling his forehead into my hair.

When sleep steals me away, I’m thinking, if life could just always be like this…

Chapter Twenty-Three

“When do grades come out?” my mom asks for the thirty-seventh time since I’d gotten home for break. She tops off the Coke in my glass and sets it by my plate.

“The twenty-third. Could you sit down and eat for a few minutes?”

“I’ll be right there.” She disappears into the kitchen with the two-liter bottle.

I roll my eyes at my dad.

Dad, staring off into some middle distance, doesn’t notice.

When she gets back and settles at her place, she says, “I was reading in your school’s handbook that you can move to a new room between semesters.”

“Deadline’s passed,” I say, forking up my green beans. I get a look from her and sit up, lowering my fork to my plate. I’d forgotten. Again. To cover, I say, “Plus, if you’re doing a move like that, you have to get all your stuff out of your current room before break. Which, obviously, I didn’t. Besides, what if they put me in a room with a serial killer? Or a black guy?” The latter wouldn’t bother me, but a pinched look ripples over her features. She clears her throat and asks me if I’d like to say grace this time.

After the amens, she says, “I just think you would be better in a room where you’re allowed access to sunshine—”

“I told you we rearranged the room. Do you want me to draw you a diagram? My desk’s right in front of a window.”

“That’s right, honey, you did. But it would be better if you were with someone at the same stage of college as you. And there’s the cigarette smoke…”

“That I don’t even smell,” I say. Except when I’ve got my face in the crook of his neck or I’m breathing in the warmth of his palm. I don’t think it would help my case to mention that.

“That’s because you’re in there every day,” she says. “You’ve gotten used to it.”

“I never smelled it in the first place. Your nose is more refined than mine. All I smell is leather.” I love the smell of leather.

“How late does he stay up working at his business?” she asks. “Making products to pay for school must take up a lot of time, on top of his schoolwork.”

“We usually go to bed around the same time.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. How late is that, I wonder.”

“Margaret,” Dad says, coming back to earth for a moment, “there are worse roommates. Leave the boy alone.”

“Thank you,” I say. “You can’t control my environment forever. I’m going to have to go out in the world and be around people who aren’t WASPs.”

“We most certainly are not—”

“Rich people,” I continue, “poor people, Jewish people, gay people…”

She shakes her head and cuts her lasagna into tidy bites with the side of her fork. “You will have to work around many different types of people, but it does not mean you have to live with them.”

“Derek’s uncle’s gay,” I say.

“That’s nice for him, dear.”

“Don’t badger your mother.”

The lasagna’s lost much of its taste over the course of the conversation. I force another bite into my mouth, looking down at the plate as I swallow. My thoughts spin. Derek’s uncle is gay. Derek’s definitely bi. I’m still figuring out what I am. She’d be shit-hot to see me lose my virginity to a girl, in that case. Probably run right out and drag home one from a “good family.”

“How is your old roommate doing?” she asks. “What was his name?”

“Skip.”

“That’s right. I keep wanting to call him Spencer. Do you ever talk to him?”

“No.”

“I wonder how he’s doing. Did they move him in with an upperclassman too?”

I set my fork on my plate. My weight shifts forward. My feet plant themselves on the floor. “Skip’s dead. May I be excused?”

“What? Dead? Shane Alexander, you can’t drop a bombshell like that on us, then go off to your room! My goodness—what happened? Was he ill? Was it on campus?”

I ball up the napkin that had been in my lap and drop it on my plate. “He committed suicide.”

“Oh my goodness.” She presses her fingers against her blouse. “When was this?”

“Right before I moved to a new room. May I be excused?”

“Shane Hahn, you sit back down.” Her voice rises sharply in pitch. “You didn’t tell us about this.”

“I didn’t want to hear the feel-good lecture on suicide. He had problems. He killed himself. It sucked, but it happened months ago. It’s ancient history.” The only real memory I have of Skip, aside from the one I’d rather not dig out of the closet I buried it in, is the dark bulk of him sitting in front of a glowing screen at three in the morning.

“I’m sure his parents don’t think so,” she says. “Did you send them a card?”

“No.” Shit. I hadn’t even thought to.

“Did the school have you talk to a counselor?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thank goodness you talked to someone, at least. It’s just too bad you didn’t feel like you could talk to us.”

“Mom, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t about you. I just didn’t want to have a fucking conversation about it.”

“Language,” my dad says, and I wonder if there’s any magic age I can reach where my parents won’t feel it’s their duty to police my choice of words.

“Do you hear this, Franklin? Our son’s roommate committed suicide, and he didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“Shane,” Dad says, “go along to your room.”

“Franklin!”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it; I don’t see why we should force him to talk about it. He talked to a counselor. I assume they know what they’re doing.”

“They may know what they’re doing, but they don’t know my son,” I hear her say as I round the corner into the living room. I’ve got news for her—she doesn’t know shit about me either. She’s too blinded by the son she wants me to be.

The last thing I hear before I haul myself up the stairs is my dad saying, “I’ve got a few things to do at the office.”

* * * *

Tell me you’re bathing your grandmother’s cat right now
, I text to Derek.

A few minutes later,
I keep meaning to tell you she passed away when I was 17
, comes back.

Shit. Sorry. Tell me you’re manicuring your grandmother’s gravesite with dull nail clippers right now.

I’m waiting for my uncle to show up for pizza and movies.

I hate you.

You say that every day
, he sends back.

I can’t wait to get back to school
. There’s something I never thought I’d say.

You say that every day too.

My mother’s voice pops into my head:
“Well, I guess I’m just a broken record, then.”
I type,
I’m gonna see if anyone wants to hang out. I need to get out of the house.

That’s probably a good idea.

There are things I
want
to type but nothing I’d want to get caught with on my phone. The Skip info drop is going to put Mom on extra alert. I wouldn’t put it past her to start snooping around my stuff, looking for evidence of more things I’d withheld from her.

It’s too bad I don’t have any gay porn to shove under my mattress.

Knuckles rap against my door.

Shit.

“Honey?”

Shit.

Gotta go
, I thumb in quickly before turning off the screen. “Yeah?”

The door opens, my mother looking in with a face of concern. “Honey, is it all right if we talk for a minute?”

“I guess.” What can I say? No? “I’m going over to Jamie’s, though, so…”

“Just for a minute.” She closes the door behind her, quietly and deliberately.

I watch her come over to the bed and perch on the edge of it, her knees angling toward me. She puts her hands on her thighs, her slacks a deep purple. Eggplant, she’d probably call it.

“Honey, suicide is a serious thing,” she says.

“No kidding.”

“I just want you to know that if you’re ever having thoughts like that—”

I laugh sharply. “Don’t worry. I don’t think about killing myself.” Parenticide is another matter, although technically I don’t think about killing her; I just sometimes hope she falls into a big hole and disappears for a while. Until I’m forty, maybe.

“Did you have any idea Skip was thinking about ending his life?” she asks.

“All Skip did was sit in front of his computer day and night. I had no idea what Skip was thinking about anything.”

“Well, didn’t you ever talk?”

“I used to say ‘hi’ when I came in the room, and ‘I’ll be back later’ when I left, but after the first few times, he didn’t even bother to grunt in response, so I gave up.”

“That poor child. He must have been in such pain to take such a drastic step. You weren’t the one to find the body, were you?”